A Maze of Demons
by ShadowJaySmith
Summary: "And sometimes when they're beds became overturned and their minds became a maze with a demon waiting at ever end, he'd get whatever they had and drink it until there was nothing left, and she'd almost drown in the bathtub. But they'd always find each other; whether it was her finding him drunk on a balcony, or him waking up to drops falling on his head." Clintasha


_The knife wove through her fingers as she stood over him. Everything about her was wrong; her hair was covered in dried blood, her nose and lips were bleeding, and she didn't care. She should have cared. Every bone in her body knew that she should care; every fiber of her being told her to stop, stop what you're doing, but none of that mattered to her._

_She couldn't stop; she didn't want to, the voices were too loud; they'd kill her if she didn't kill him first._

_She needed to break him, find all his weaknesses and exploit them, burn every part of him, and torture him until her knuckles were drenched in his blood, and there was nothing left to break. She needed the voices to subside; they needed to leave her alone. She almost stopped to wonder what would be left of her if she killed him. Almost. They all yelled at her in the voices of the demons that she'd once locked away, but they'd somehow freed themselves._

_"Natt, stop." he choked out. His hands reached up and smoothed a red lock and then traced the line of her jaw, trying to reason with a mindless beast, driven mad by her own demons brought back to light. His blue eyes were the only things that showed through the blood that covered his face. "Natt, please, this isn't you this is them messing with your brain, wake up."_

_She kneeled over him, knees around his body, and she looked and how broken he was. His suit was torn down the sides and his hair was soaking wet from being dunked in ice water. He shivered violently, but his face was still hard and unyielding, as he tried to not give into the pain that racked through his body. She could see it in his eyes. And she waited for him to break._

_She couldn't wait any longer; she took the knife and drew red lines across his stomach and heard him scream; and she liked it._

"Clint!" She forced her eyes open, and sat up abruptly in her bed. Her body was covered in sweat, and to her ultimate surprise, she was crying, sobbing really. Every night she had that dream, and maybe this was when she'd break.

She threw herself out of her bed, running blindly towards the bathroom. Her palms smacked against the marble surface of the sink with a loud _smack,_ making them burn and ache. She looked into her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror, and began to feel empty.

She didn't even bother taking off her clothes; she just turned on the large tub faucet and stepped into it. She let her head submerge under the surface of the gray water, and let it fill all of her pores and let it rush around her.

She doesn't know how long she stayed there. She doesn't even notice her bleeding palms as they tinted the water around her. She doesn't let her eyes open; she keeps them glued tightly together. She only broke the surface when air became absolutely necessary for her survival.

But what if she didn't come up for air? All the things she's done; all the life she's lived, what if it would be all over? She didn't mean to not let herself resurface, she had just begun to feel tired. All she wanted to do was run away from here; away from responsibilities and fears, and let the current pull her along.

_No. _She forced the thought into her mind, _I will not go down like this, I'll be damned if I do._

But by the time she began to fight, it was too late. She found herself drifting away, until a pair of strong hands grabbed her wrists, causing her to emerge on the surface, as her world drifted into a lull of black oblivion.

* * *

"Natt." He whispered into her wet hair as she kept her eyes closes and her arms crossed across her chest. He rested his forehead against her temple, and his nose close to her ear, as he waited for her to return back to him.

He didn't bother ask her what was wrong, he knew why she did this when she did; it was a dream that she couldn't take anymore. So like every time she took the bottle gently from his hands, he began to rinse her hair through with her shampoo that didn't smell like anything in particular. Neither of them noticed these things or cared because who was really going to notice?

Neither of them cared for anyone more than they cared for each other; sometimes they only talked to one another. Sometimes all they did was spar until Clint couldn't take any more hits. Sometimes he'd walk up behind her and read over her shoulder while she pretended not to notice. Sometimes he'd chew obnoxiously loudly just to annoy her as she read across the table. Sometimes she'd silently go check on him at night when she thought he was asleep, just to make sure he was okay and he'd pretend that he didn't feel her presence.

And sometimes when they're beds became overturned and their minds became a maze with a demon waiting at every end, he'd get whatever they had and drink it until there was nothing left, and she'd almost drown in the bathtub. But they'd always find each other; whether it was her finding him drunk on a balcony, or him waking up to drops falling on his head.

She'd always lead him back to his bed and draw circles on his shoulder blades until he fell asleep again. While he'd clean her hair and tend to any wounds she'd earned. She always listens to his drunken ramblings about his nightmares, but he still waits for the day when she'll tell him what she screams about.

She stares off into the distance and never looks at him as he washes her hair, it's like she never acknowledges that he's there. "Clint?" she whispered, never taking her eyes off of a spot in front of her.

He looked up at her sadly, this was the only time he ever saw Natasha Romanoff undone, and he didn't like it. I wonder what she though about him when he was drunk.

"It was awful," She began, and he realized that he didn't really want to hear this sad story; it was her sick, twisted, interpretation of what she'd done in her past, what she felt like she ruined.

"Natt, please don't—" he began to turn away, and pick up the shirt he'd taken off after it had become drenched.

"I was killing you." She didn't take her eyes away from the small piece of dirt on the wall as he froze, back turned away from her. "And I liked it."

"Natt, it was just a dream—"

He tried to comfort her, but was interrupted by her turning at a lightning fast speed and whispering, "Clint, I was torturing you, I wanted to burn you, I wanted to break you into a million little pieces while you begged me to stop; you _screamed_, Clint, begged and begged for your life, begging me to listen to you, to let you bring me back to earth and I wouldn't, Clint."

Her eyes were wild and crazy, and his body was tense, he didn't know what to say except, "Natt, you just need to go back to sleep, that'll help you."

"Don't leave me."

"Have you ever left me?" was his simple response.

She smiled, and let him wrap a towel around her body, while kicking a bottle he'd brought in with him further under the sink, letting him forget about his troubles as he let her let him in.


End file.
